


you never had it better

by orangesparks



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Shameless (US)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, what am I even doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/pseuds/orangesparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Éponine is trying to raise her siblings, Cosette is trying to come to terms with her past, Enjolras is trying to fight for a difference, Azelma is trying to navigate the terrifying path of adolescence, Javert is trying to uphold some semblance of order, and Thénardier is trying to make a quick buck. </p><p>(Or: a messy, messy modern AU heavily influenced by TV's 'Shameless'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the after school program

It started with Gavroche. 

Most things did.

He had been disappearing more than usual, lately. It was something which might not normally raise Éponine’s suspicions, had it not been paired with an influx of other shifty behavior – avoiding questions about friends at school; ignoring his brothers’ plaintive requests to show them skateboard tricks, something he normally indulged with glee; coming home late for dinner, sometimes even picking at his plate with the restrained manner of someone who’d already eaten but was forcing it down for the sake of appearances. It smacked of reminiscence from the time when he’d been getting extra income from not-so-legal extracurricular activities. 

She cornered him after Marc and Sebastien had already left for their bus stop one Tuesday morning, before he could bolt out the kitchen door with his Pop Tarts and skateboard.

“What are you dealing now?”

He cocked a confused eyebrow at her. “’Scuse me?”

Éponine’s steely gaze did not falter. “What. Are. You. Dealing. Now?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Gavroche muttered, turning to slam open the (on its last legs) screen door, before Éponine gripped the sleeve of his ratty green hoodie and held fast.

“Yeah? Great. I don’t have time for smartass twelve-year-olds bringing unwanted cops to this house again. Tell me what nefarious business you’re up to this time, and maybe I’ll consider not twisting your ears off your head.”

He scowled at her. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, so it’s worse?”

He huffed a loud, long-suffering sigh. (Oh, it was definitely from their parents that he’d gotten his flair for dramatics.) “It’s… an after school program.” She narrowed her eyes, and he raised his hands in supplication. “I’m serious! Well… it _practically_ is. I mean, it’s kind of a program, and it’s after school…”

“Huh. ‘After school program’ is what they’re calling it these days?”

He disdainfully pried her fingers off of his sleeve. 

“It’s not drugs.” 

At the kitchen table, Azelma hiccoughed a laugh from behind her cup of juice. Gavroche glared at her. 

“It’s not!”

Éponine folded her arms over her chest. “That defensive tone of voice is doing _wonders_ for your argument, please continue.”

Gavroche looked longingly at the door, but kept from making a run for it, probably because he knew he’d be in shit city if he tried. A variety of emotions flashed over his face, chiefly annoyance and deliberation, before he sighed again.

“I didn’t tell you about it because you wouldn’t understand.”

She shrugged. 

“Probably not, but you’d better make me try, or they’re gonna be picking up pieces of you off the skate ramp for the next two weeks.”

 

-

 

Éponine hadn’t felt this out of place since the last time she’d had to attend a Parent-Teacher conference on Sebastien’s behalf. 

_I feel like I walked into a fucking J. Crew catalog_ , she thought bitterly.

The cluster of young college students, gathered around the various tables inside the Corinthe, might not have been unusual on their own, no (as much as the luxury items covering their bodies and adorning their leather satchels might have made her skin crawl with disgust and envy); she wasn’t even surprised that her brother had taken to hanging around people so much older than himself, considering that Precocious was pretty much his ( _and_ Azelma’s) middle name. They also seemed to be in the habit of buying him plenty of bar food, which explained his sudden lack of appetite during mealtimes at home. But that didn’t explain why the lot of them, engaged as they all were in casual conversation, all still seemed to be… _waiting_ for something.

With her threadbare t-shirt and jeans, Éponine certainly looked more at place inside the dive-y atmosphere emanating from every square inch of the bar - at least more than they did, with their sleek laptops and thick ironic Ray-Ban frames. But she supposed that invading rundown places reeking of smoke seemed to be the hip new trend with obnoxious trust fund kids, these days. 

Though most of the boys spread around the Corinthe’s back room were complete strangers to her, not all were. She directed a strained nod at Joly, her close friend and neighbor, and the bald young man with whom he was holding a conversation. Judging by his lack of surprise or concern at Gavroche’s entrance, it was clear that this was not a new occurrence to him. 

(Oh, they were _definitely_ going to have a little chat later.) 

She also recognized Grantaire, a frequenter at the diner where she worked. He was currently slumped over a table, head buried beneath his arms; she surmised that he was sleeping rather than dead only due to the volume of his snores. If it hadn’t been his natural state, perhaps she might have worried. But there were more pressing concerns on her mind right now. 

“What’s the deal?” she demanded of Gavroche. “Gambling? Human trafficking? Joining a frat six years early?”

“Come _on_ ,” Gavroche protested, voice pitched almost to a whine, throwing her a look that said _gimme a little more credit than that_. 

She strode over to Joly. 

“Thanks a whole fucking lot for informing me that my brother’s joined your secret freemason society.”

Joly halted his conversation with the bald guy, looking over at her in startled bemusement, as though he’d been snapped out of a trance.

“Pardon?”

“The world of shit you’re about to be in from me is nothing compared to what ‘Chetta is gonna do once she finds out.”

Joly, not threatened in the least, actually _brightened_. “Oh. Musichetta knows!”

“… _what?_ ”

At her irate tone, her friend inched slightly back, staring down at her clenched fist. 

“About my involvement, I mean. She doesn’t know Gavroche has been coming here.”

“Yet you seem to have known,” she hissed. Joly’s face contorted into a wince, inching back even farther. The bald guy warily glanced between the two of them.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go stand over… there, for a while.” He sauntered away in the direction of the bar, the smoothness of his exit blemished ( _“Ow! Goddamn it!”_ ) when he tripped over his own feet. 

“Explain,” Éponine said, shoving her hair from her eyes in exasperation. Joly bit his lip, considering. Now that he was more certain her fist wouldn’t be colliding with his face this afternoon, his posture visibly relaxed. 

“Why don’t I let Enjolras explain? He’s the one in charge, after all, and much better at speaking; better than not just me, but anyone else here…”

“Who the fuck is Enjolras?”

 

-

 

One forty-minute-long speech later, Éponine had her answer. 

She’d barely nodded goodbye to Joly before bee-lining over to where Gavroche stood, chatting merrily with a rather animated student in an expensive-looking button-up. At her arrival, Gavroche groaned, and the young man glanced over at her from under his mop of curly hair. When they made eye contact, he winked in a manner that she supposed he considered roguish. It kind of made her want to throw up.

She smiled back sarcastically, grabbing Gavroche’s shoulder and hauling him out after her. As soon as they were outside, he yanked his arm free of her grasp. 

“Hey! Watch it!” And then, laughing sardonically: “I knew you wouldn’t understand!”

“What’s to understand? My little brother’s discovered politics and joined up with a group of anti-government nutjobs. Great! Every girl's dream!” 

_And it was only because of you that I actually sat through that smug bastard's entire speech, you little twerp._

At her brother's responding glare, she sighed. “Honestly, Gav? I almost wish I’d caught you dealing again.”


	2. door-to-door social revolution salesman

The meeting hadn’t gone as well as Enjolras had hoped. 

Grantaire was dead to the world, as per - no surprise, there. Even Joly, who was normally quite attentive, had spent much of his speech deep in hushed conversation with a dark-haired girl who’d managed to slip into the room without his notice earlier, her quiet demeanor making her as inconspicuous as her gender did not. 

_Unprofessional_ , Enjolras quietly seethed. 

He was far from opposed to newcomers joining the cause, but certainly, they could do better than flighty girls whose priorities seemed to be distracting the already waning minds of his audience rather than any political concerns. 

Worse still, Pontmercy - runner-up to only Grantaire for the winner of The Current Bane Of Enjolras’s Existence Award - was yet again absent. (Again – no surprise, there.)

Was he the only one who cared about bringing _change_ to this world? Were these meetings merely an idle distraction for the others, a mere prick of social conscience that they’d briefly entertained in order to feel morally secure? Regretfully, he was beginning to think so.

“That’s never a good face,” came a quiet voice from beside him. Enjolras turned, startled. Glancing up from his laptop, Combeferre was studying him with a look of concern. 

“What?”

Combeferre laughed, eyes warm behind his wire-rimmed glasses. 

“Whenever you make that expression, you look like you’re about to go on a rampage. I fear for not only my safety but that of everyone within a twenty-yard radius.” 

Enjolras glowered. “I’m supposed to be pleased, then, with the abysmal turn-out tonight?” 

“Change isn’t instantaneous. You, of all people, should know that.” 

Although Enjolras usually welcomed Combeferre’s counsel, tonight was not the night for it. He deliberately turned away before striding over to the table where Joly sat, surrounded by mountains of schoolwork. Judging by the intensity with which he was engrossed in his medical textbook, it appeared that his mystery girl had long abandoned him. 

“I’m delighted you’ve decided our meetings are also functional as dating hot spots.” 

“Huh?” 

But Enjolras only stared, narrowing his eyes until they were practically slits. The other boy finally got the message.

“Oh, _her_?” said Joly. “That was only Éponine.” As if that explained everything. 

“How impolite of me to forget the name of someone I’ve never met,” Enjolras returned dryly. Joly grinned. 

“Best learn it. You might be seeing her again.”

“She’s… _interested_ in the cause?” Enjolras asked, slowly. Joly suppressed a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“Not hardly! But Gavroche is her brother, and she’s not exactly happy about him hanging with the likes of us. The more trouble she can keep him out of, the better.” 

Although he hadn’t been expecting the girl to be a new recruit, this information still slightly deflated something inside of Enjolras. Yet he brushed the feeling away, as one would a meddlesome insect. 

“I fail to see her grievance. Gavroche has shown nothing but maturity and dedication, no matter what his age might be.”

Joly attempted to disguise another laugh, this time as a cough, his eyes crinkling. (Enjolras was quite tempted to offer him a throat lozenge, but that could very well lead to panic over the possibility of catching a cold, thus derailing the conversation entirely, so he mercifully held his tongue.)

“Maybe so. And I’ve known the kid for years, I love having him around... but maybe she’s not so fond of certain future possibilities…”

“Such as?”

“Such as him getting targeted by the cops at a riot?” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “How ridiculous. He’s only twelve, he couldn’t be arrested.”

This time, Joly made no attempt to disguise his laughter. 

 

-

 

Many people had shown up at their door on account of Gavroche over the years. Cops, truant officers, angry preteen classmates who’d been sold a “bad batch”… point was, Éponine had become adept at recognizing most of them. 

If she’d known the actual identity of the young man who briskly rapped on the dented doorframe with the authority of a civil servant, she’d have kept the fucking door locked.

But as such, she didn’t, and the willowy blond, with his mint-colored tennis sweater and luxurious shampoo commercial hair, seemed innocent enough (though he stuck out like a bruised fucking thumb). Hell. Maybe he was giving out coupons to a new fro-yo place.

She opened the door. 

“Éponine Thénardier?” he asked, voice grim.

 _Shit_.

“...yes?” 

He looked as wary as she suddenly felt, which was the only thing keeping her from immediately slamming the door shut. Perhaps he thought the grime coating the railing of their porch might leave a streak on his sweater that the dry-cleaners could never recover. My, how _dreadful!_

_Well, well. This certainly isn’t your kind of neighborhood, Pastel Pete._

“Gavroche is… your brother?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she repeated, ice starting to creep into her tone. What had the little shit stolen _now?_

“I’d like to discuss some things regarding him with you, if you don’t mind.”

He gazed at her expectantly, clearly waiting to be invited in. But she kept her hand firmly on the door, making no move to open it wider. 

“Why don’t you tell me what this is about, first?”

The wariness etched in his features suddenly faded as he relaxed and adopted a firm, authoritative manner. 

“Your brother has a promising future as a political activist. It's only natural that he desires to be invo—“

“Getting teargased at close range is your version of a promising future?” she interrupted. “Shit. I must’ve gotten the lyrics of that Whitney Houston song wrong.”

A muscle in the boy’s cheek twitched, but he soldiered on, undeterred. 

“My associates and I are interested in bringing about change by any means necessary. We’re beginning with hypotheticals before engaging in any mass demonstrations, but there’s little reason to believe that things would escalate into violence quite so suddenly.”

“Very reassuring,” she replied, tone dripping with sarcasm. He stiffened. 

“What you fail to understand is that Gavroche is wise beyond his years when it comes to his grasp of not just social change, but also the political.”

“Huh. Guess that was the logical progression from selling pot to other middle schoolers. Maybe he’ll run for class president next year.” 

“I see _nothing_ far-fetched about that,” the boy told her, voice passionately rising to a lofty tone – (and shit, _now_ she recognized him, he was the preppy jackass who’d ranted about the government at the Corinthe for nearly an hour the other day) – “and frankly, I find it a little baffling that a person in your situation would be so closed off to the great fortune of your brother waking up to the various injustices so prevalent in our—“

“Hold up. A person in my ‘situation’?” She narrowed her eyes, heat rising in her cheeks. The little shitbrick had finally crossed a line. “ _Listen_ , old chap, it’s really great that you and the other gentlemen at the country club have decided to make my brother your charity case of the month, I’m sure it’ll look _splendid_ on your grad school applications, good luck with all that. But, sincerely? Fuck off.”

She slammed the door in his face.

“Well,” said Enjolras to himself.


	3. "evening, officer!"

“Her refusal to see reason is infuriating.”

In the experience of the Amis, the scant few times in which Enjolras condescended to acknowledge the presence of the opposite sex were usually to express annoyance, disdain, or a stunning combination of both. Therefore, it surprised absolutely no one that a handful of interactions with Éponine Thénardier had inspired such a reaction. 

This knowledge also made it safe to tune out this particular rant; perhaps catch up on some homework. 

(No one would be missing anything new.)

Combeferre, however, did not adopt such a casual attitude regarding their leader’s latest mission of fury. As the one closest to Enjolras, he had grown wary, if only because of the frequency with which he expressed frustration over Éponine being unimpressed with the idea of Gavroche joining their cause (and also, Combeferre privately thought, likely unimpressed with _Enjolras_ in particular). 

He also knew that the other boy never let a challenge go. It was partly due to persistence, which was admirable, yet also due to arrogance, which was… not. 

“Have you made it clear what our organization is striving for?” he asked Enjolras. The other boy directed a stare so severe at him in return that he half-expected to turn to stone.

Well, that answered that.

At a table opposite theirs, Feuilly watched this exchange with equal parts curiosity and wariness. He hadn’t had as easy a childhood as many of his associates, and despite their good intentions - made evident by their dedication to the cause - they still had the tendency to forget the privileges afforded to them, Enjolras being no exception. He had the funny feeling that Éponine’s reluctance had less to do with her stubborn personality and more to do with Enjolras’s tendency to lapse into brusqueness when denied his way. 

“And did you make it seem as though it would eventually be in _her_ best interest, as well, to let Gavroche remain a part of the cause?” Combeferre continued. Another icy stare from Enjolras. 

“That should go without saying.”

Feuilly’s interest was piqued.

“And how, exactly, did you phrase it?” he asked, tone deceptively light.

“I fail to see the relevance of that,” Enjolras replied. Combeferre and Feuilly exchanged glances. 

“Humor us,” Combeferre gently prompted.

“I merely expressed my confusion over a person in her situation being so resistant—”

Feuilly let out a sound that may have been a laugh, or may have been a sob.

“—to her brother’s political awakening,” Enjolras finished primly, as though he hadn’t been interrupted mid-sentence by massive quantities of side-eye. 

“…that was how you said it,” Combeferre replied. The words held the cadence of a question, yet their flat tone denied the intent of such. “A person in her situation.”

“Yes.” 

“And you plan on… _speaking_ to her, again?” Feuilly asked. Enjolras raised a haughty eyebrow.

“Of course.”

Combeferre winced. 

 

-

 

The girl had waves of black hair that hadn’t seen a conditioner bottle in ages, a waist-to-hip ratio that denied the laws of physics, and the largest, darkest eyes that Cosette had ever seen.

She promptly glanced back down at her coffee, then back up, hoping she hadn’t been caught staring. The girl was busy filling caddies with sugar packets, swiping absentmindedly at a coffee stain on her mint-colored server uniform. Cosette internally heaved a sigh of relief. 

To humiliate herself by being caught creepily gazing like some kind of stalker would ensure she could never return to this place again, and the diner had a homey sort of charm to it that she found appealing; its lack of pretentiousness, made resplendent in the sorts of restaurants she and her father were used to frequenting, was a main selling point. 

Not to mention the added bonus of getting to look at certain employees. 

Although Cosette’s first semester of college classes didn’t officially start for another week, she had eagerly taken the opportunity to go exploring the city. After receiving a substantial scholarship to CMU, she and her father had moved back to Pittsburgh, and only a month in the city after almost a lifetime of quiet solitude in a suburb on the outskirts of Philadelphia had been quite the culture shock - although one Cosette gladly welcomed. She fiercely loved the promise of adventure, and for so long, the only place she'd been able to find anything in that realm had been within her rather large collection of books. 

She adored her father, absolutely no question, but the idea of commuting instead of getting to live in a dorm with other students her age resurfaced that pang of loneliness that she’d gotten so very good at ignoring over the years.

But she was being ridiculous, she told herself. Not living on campus didn’t mean she’d be entirely excluded from student life. With a little persuasion, perhaps she could even talk her father into allowing her to join some non-academic extracurriculars; maybe even attend a party, or two… 

The thought of a _party_ , and being surrounded by so many new faces and voices, brought a sharp thrill of pleasure to her; especially the idea of dressing as wildly as she dared, bare-shouldered and barefoot and dancing flush against an array of strange new bodies…

Glancing back over at the waitress, she felt heat crawl down her neck as she watched the play of lean muscle beneath slender arms as the girl stretched to reach for a box on a shelf above her.

Yet beyond the stirrings of attraction, there was something else drawing her to this girl. A memory, something faint-

Her heart nearly stopped when she realized why.

When the girl wandered by to refill her coffee, Cosette opened her mouth to politely share this information.

“This will sound odd, but I _know_ you from somewhere!” she blurted, loudly enough for a young man slumped over at the counter to jerk his head up, turn around and glare at her.

(It was the thought that counted.)

“Isn’t that kind of pick-up line usually reserved for pool dens and dive bars?” the girl asked. Cosette felt heat rise in her cheeks, but refused to be deterred.

“Your name is Éponine,” she quickly added, keeping her gaze locked on the girl’s. The coffee pitcher suddenly jostled in her hand, eyes widening with recognition. And then Cosette knew it was true. God. 

_Éponine_. 

 

-

 

“Evening, officer!” the man cried, smiling widely at Enjolras. “And what brings _you_ to our house this fine, fine evening?”

Perhaps the one thing worse than getting verbally disemboweled by Gavroche’s sister was the accusation of secretly being a cop. 

Yes, it had not been his wisest decision to select his black BMW ActiveHybrid to drive to Éponine’s neighborhood (“Looks like a fuckin’ _yacht_ ,” Bahorel had complained, on more than one occasion) - in fact, he’d regretted it the instant the door swung open and the middle-aged man standing behind it paled upon seeing not only Enjolras but the gleaming metal behemoth parked in front of his shabby duplex - but the damage had already been done.

He cleared his throat and put on his most reassuring smile.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir. I’m not a police officer.”

The man smiled in a way that told him he found this to be a complete lie. 

Enjolras sighed.

“In _fact_ ,” he continued, “not only am I not a police officer, but it is doubtful I would ever entertain the possibility of becoming one, least of all because today’s parody of law enforcement has committed many heinous crimes in their twisted pursuit of justice which, in a perfect world, would result in lengthy sentences themselves.”

The man squinted at him suspiciously. 

“…you a friend of ‘Parnasse?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“What’s your business here, then?”

“I’d like to speak with Miss Éponine Thenardier. Are you her father?”

“Oh, so you’re lookin’ for _‘Ponine_ , eh?” the man asked with renewed vigor, voice suddenly filled with a leer that made Enjolras uneasy. “And why’s that, I wonder?”

“We’ve business to discuss.”

“ _Business_.” The man managed to stretch the single word out into at least nine syllables. (Enjolras counted.) “I _see_.” He grinned, flashing a mouth of uneven yellow teeth that must have been charming, several years and packs of cigarettes ago. 

Enjolras decided that he was not fond of this man, nor his talent for making everything sound like innuendo. 

“Local politics,” he quickly clarified. 

At the word ‘politics’, the man instantly deflated – then shrugged, scowling. 

“Can’t help you, anyway. She’s not here. Dunno where she is - out causing trouble, no doubt.”

Although his daughter was certainly no stranger to trouble, she was actually in the middle of working an eleven-hour shift at a local diner. 

(Thénardier was well aware of this.)

Enjolras frowned. 

“I should like to leave a message for her, then.” He opened the leather satchel which hung from his shoulder, fishing inside it for a ballpoint pen and a moleskine notepad. The old man’s eyes widened as he watched him carelessly toss aside his phone, e-reader, and an assortment of other expensive electronics in an effort to retrieve the desired materials. 

“How’d you say you knew ‘Ponine, again?” the man asked, eyebrow cocked.

Enjolras, finally finding pen and paper, plastered a bland smile onto his face as he hurriedly scrawled his contact information alongside a brief note. 

“She has expressed interest in an organization which my friends and I have started.”

(She hadn’t.)

“I am simply making a house call to discuss the particulars with her.”

(Another lie.)

“As her _father_ ,” the man said, puffing up his scrawny chest in a futile attempt to appear larger, “I should think you oughta tell _me_ what this is all about! My right as the patriarch, and that kinda thing.” 

Perhaps his façade of wounded dignity may have been more believable had he not punctuated his sentence with a loud belch. (Enjolras studiously ignored this minor detail.)

“Ah. Mr. Thénardier, then?” A nod. “Where to begin? Sir, my friends and I are interested in bringing about great social change for all – on not just a national scale, but local, as well. The underprivileged citizens of this city are of particular concern to us, and in order--“

Quick as a wink, Thénardier’s face split into a sallow grin as he let out a harsh bark of laughter. 

“You’ve come to help us _out_ , then! My boy - why didn’t you _say_ so?”

Enjolras, though pleased by this suddenly warm reception, was still confused. 

“I… pardon?”

Fifteen minutes later, he was quite well-informed on Thénardier’s version of “helping” out. 

Not exactly what he’d had in mind as part of the cause, no… but he imagined Éponine’s eyes widening when she learned just _who_ had ensured that she and her siblings would have water and electricity and a (leaking, but at least sturdy, to be sure) roof over their heads for the next few months, and the fierce pride which would surely overtake her when she realized exactly the sort of people her brother had joined the ranks of. 

(Let her dismiss him as a man of empty promises, _then_.)

He straightened his back, flashing a genuine smile at Thénardier. 

“And how much do you think would be enough to cover everything, sir?”

(Had he not been so focused on such glorious future visions, perhaps he might have taken _“How much you got in that pocket of yours, Blondie?”_ not as odd slang specific to those driven to their knees by poverty, but as a suspicious tip-off.)

 

-

 

“I envied you,” Éponine admitted, and Cosette held back a laugh. 

It was Éponine’s break, and the girls were sprawled on the concrete steps behind the diner’s kitchen. 

(“Technically, since I’m over eighteen, they legally don’t _have_ to give me one - so I just relax during downtime whenever the owner isn’t here to make up for it,” she said, matter-of-factly, and Cosette internally bristled over the injustice as much as her heart leapt at the casual ease with which the other girl was already confiding in her – almost like a _friend_ ). 

Éponine took a drag of her Winston, and Cosette tried to not inhale too much secondhand smoke. The brunette shrugged. 

“It’s true.”

“Shut up,” Cosette murmured. 

“You got to _leave_ ,” Éponine clarified, and the demure smirk fell off Cosette’s face.

Although being adopted by her father and whisked far from the foster care of the Thénardiers had been something she’d taken care to thank God for nightly in her prayers, she’d neglected to think about what may have become of the Thénardiers’ _own_ children. 

The realization filled Cosette with sudden guilt.

“The instant you left, Mom took the belt to me and Azelma, instead. Guess she still needed somewhere to let out her frustrations at Dad. Made us realize that we weren’t special exceptions, even as her own flesh and blood.” Éponine’s tone didn’t speak of one looking for pity, though; only of hardened indifference. “She left, what was it— four, five years ago? Not long after Marc was born. Ran away with some guy who owns a gas station in Altoona.” She took another drag, shaking her head. “Good fucking riddance.”

“Was this… hard, on your father?” Cosette asked, although she already knew the answer. Éponine snorted.

“As if the bastard cared! One less person for him to share his precious booze with. Ended up being easier on us kids, anyway, since there was now only one person swinging the belt when he got too sloppy – and I’d just had a recent growth spurt that made him reconsider ever trying to get fresh with _me_ again.” 

Again, there was no plea for sympathy in her tone – only a rough sort of pride that made Cosette’s stomach tighten pleasantly. 

“The only reason we’re still all under the same roof is because the asshole knows we’re all pulling in more of an income than he ever will. Unless the day comes when they start paying people to be useless douchebags.”

“Now, now,” Cosette chided, “that’s not exactly fair. Douchebags have many uses.”

Éponine exploded with laughter.

“I _like_ you,” she told Cosette, grinning around her cigarette, and although she knew it was meant in a nonchalant manner, she couldn’t help the surge of pride which swelled up inside of her. It was unlikely that Éponine would ever feel the same way she was beginning to feel about her, but if she could still manage a friend out of the bargain, it would be far from a total loss. 

Yet when Cosette beamed back a radiant smile of her own, she was dismayed to see a frown slowly creasing the other girl’s mouth.

“Look…” Éponine sighed. “I don’t want to gloss over it. Azelma and I were never exactly easy on you. We’ve both come to realize that, but… much too late, obviously. And even though it’s been years, I still feel like shit for it, y’know? And I’m truly sorry. Every time we ignored you, every time we made fun of you… all of it. Still makes me sick.” 

“You were only a child,” Cosette reminded her softly. Éponine let out a harsh laugh.

“Kids are just as capable of cruelty as anyone else. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I suppose I’m wondering why you’re even speaking to me.”

Despite the answers suddenly flooding her mind, Cosette still found herself withdrawing, reverting to her days of ashamed silence in the Thénardier home; though this time, out of an entirely different kind of fear. Not of brutal retaliation – no, simply because her heart was full to burst with so many emotions, and even somebody as seemingly unflappable as Eponine would surely be uncomfortable hearing them all voiced:

_Because I need to remember where I’ve come from._

_Because it will make me realize how lucky I am and how thoughtless it is for me to be frustrated with my complacency._

_Because I look at you and I want to be angry but I can’t, not just because I know better than to carry that sort of hate in my heart, but because I’m lonely and I crave the familiar and I think I could stare at your face all day._

“Because I needed a coffee refill,” Cosette told her. 

Éponine laughed.


End file.
